=Ever since I first heard the word “Gun Crime” I sensed something was “wrong.” This being so, when I heard about “black on black violence” coming from the mouths of black people, my suspicions were confirmed. I knew something was going on because from where I was standing, it made no sense for blacks to co-operate, collaborate and connive with the white establishment in demonising black youth. At what point did victims become friends with their enemies I thought? Moreover, why were these supposedly sincere people not asking or posing the searching questions that might unravel this mystery of death, pathology and violence. It seemed to be more of an entertaining pastime than a genuine concern. Discussing “pathology” came to be a unifying principle for people obsessed with “new gossip” and “popular culture” than it was about “valued lives” and “lost people” and yet, this is what I’ve come to expect from “being black.” I have come to expect such mediocrity: incompetent beauty. Maybe if they were gracious enough, these gullible people might have conceded that they were confused by the speculation and controversy, but instead, apparently, they decided to pretend that they were more informed than they really are, and in their desperation, they invented, or believed in, the myth of criminal youth. Of course, this was a huge hoax because there can be no “pathological” aspects of a “pathological whole.” Just as one cannot make a further joke out of a situation which is already a mockery, one cannot identify criminal blacks when the very essence of blackness has come to mean living in the shadow of criminality; to endure a totally, criminal condition. There can be no FURTHER crime beyond that; at the initial point of insult, the damage was already done.
When the story of crime and gangs first broke, the headline was “why are so many people dying”, and yet, the question I asked, quite contrary, was the reverse: why are not enough people dying. In essence, I knew from the moment a word was uttered, that gun crime was a farce designed to criminalise and demonise blacks. Anyone who had indulged in Frank Talk would surely discern this. In his writings, Talk reminded his people that anyone participating in the white man’s game was a farce, and instead, he encouraged sincere supporters of liberations to shatter any such platforms without lending them any credibility. If these sentiments were penned as far back as the late 1960’s, why was it that some forty years later, I found black people speaking as if these words hadn’t been written? Again, it was the erasure of memory, and with that, the complicity with supremacy. In protest, I had to challenge the “religious myth”, which is why I attacked gun crime as “bunk”, and in turn, was attacked myself. Likewise, when I have challenged the romantic notion of a “civil rights” movement abroad winning a vote for blacks over here (Britain, Uk, England?), I have similarly been jeered, despite the obvious discrepancies in geographical locality. Nonetheless, painful interactions like these have given birth to this “monastic recluse.” Exhausted by these people, I simply remove myself from any possible conflicts and potential tensions; they are not constructive, but committed to entertaining unreality, and this is sad. Early on I had to appraise situations prior to engaging in them, and I am the result of this discernment.
I am no longer surprised I came to be so “elitist” in mind, and identification. The Gifted experiment with roles, during various phases of development, and with blackness having so little to offer, I retreated into, and resorted to an identity that held much more worth and meaning. I had to separate and distinguish myself from the madness of blackness, and in turn, rebelled against the banality of black thought. In the end, some might say I am bitter, but if that is what is required to make me “better”, who am I to complain? Others might say I imagine I’m better than others, but as I have written elsewhere, to think of myself as better than others implies that there first is something to be better than, but this is not the case. Finally, others might say that in hating my people I hate myself, and yet, despite being amused by the concept of a misanthrope, I must say that my “racist ideas” are rather impractical and merely private pleasures. I do, for instance subscribe to the notion of segregating brilliance from bunk, and yet, who am I to enforce this? I do subscribe to the notion that some people are mentally “ill”, morally “unhygienic” and cumulatively “sick”, but I simply keep my distance from such people; I do not violently force wedges between us. I simply prefer to maintain boundaries and barriers which prevent “infection”, but am I to be “blamed?” Surely I am also a victim of circumstance, and although my ideas seem so self-contradictory, I struggle to conceive of any black person who doesn’t feel a similar degree of contempt for “their people.” (We’re just so well-trained.) At any moment, if we are honest, I’m sure we will admit that’ we’d abandon “the others” for “the papers.” There is no community; just network; just symbol, for even our intimacy is superficial.